The cabin was smaller than the photos suggested and the lake was colder than anyone promised, and it was, without argument, the best fortnight of the year.
Maya learned to skip stones. Somebody always smelled of woodsmoke.
The cabin was smaller than the photos suggested and the lake was colder than anyone promised, and it was the best fortnight of the year.
The cabin was smaller than the photos suggested and the lake was colder than anyone promised, and it was, without argument, the best fortnight of the year.
Maya learned to skip stones. Somebody always smelled of woodsmoke.
What began as a single raised bed became, over a strange quiet year, a small farm.
A small ceremony under the plum tree, forty guests, and rain that held off until exactly the right moment.
One hundred and eight bells at midnight, a very cold temple courtyard, and the best bowl of soba any of us can remember.
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